Interception
by Indy is awesome
Summary: A light-hearted fic where Cobb meets someone surprising that could turn his life around for the better. Rated T for minor language, suggestive adult themes, adult psychology and manipulation, and murder. Could be one-shot, maybe add more later.


Interception

A Homage and Tribute to Christopher Nolan's Masterpiece "Inception"

Inside, Outside Kyoto Outskirts, Japan

Dominic "Dom" Cobb woke up on the Japanese "bullet" train, feeling very let down. His attempt to extract a dream from his adversary was a catastrophic failure, and for what? The ability to some way, somehow keep pushing for a life he once called home? He didn't even know what he was doing, why he was there in the first place.

"Lost something?" asked Arthur, who was staring at a now pacing Cobb. Cobb put on his best salesman smile, which still made him look like a shark.

"Why, no, Arthur, I was just pondering," said Cobb effectively, but it was ineffective enough to dissuade Arthur. He put his hand on Cobb's shoulder, and said,

"It's going to be all right. Someday, you're going to find a wife and kids, and just settle down someplace."

Cobb snorted. "Easy for you to say. You're not even at the age where you _have_ kids."

Arthur looked down impassively. "I know enough _about_ them. I had to raise my nephew for two years when my sister was put in intensive care."

Cobb sniggered mirthlessly. "Oh, you. You don't know enough… but who could possibly understand _me?_" He stretched his arms out in a sweeping gesture.

Arthur laughed. "I've been trying to figure that one out since the day we met."

Cobb frowned. "That's not funny."

Arthur shrugged. "You asked."

Cobb stormed out and took his seat. The kid who he hired to set everything up for the extraction process was staring at him.

"Well?" asked Arthur, with his arms akimbo. "What are _you_ looking at?"

"You're not Clint Eastwood," the kid replied in perfect English, "And the last thing I want on this 115-kilometre ride to Yokohama is for you to pretend to be a melodramatic punk."

Cobb gaped at the kid, wondering if he was still dreaming.

"Honestly, I'm not entirely sure if you're trying too hard to be sixteen or fifty," the kid said with a shrug. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to use the lavatory." The kid got up and left.

Arthur had been watching from the entranceway with a catlike smirk.

"Sometimes, pushing thirty is tough," said Arthur, "But you just gotta do it."

"Easy for you to say… you're still young enough to think things over," said Cobb, staring at the floor.

"I'm twenty-eight," said Arthur with the same smirk.

"Oh, for God's sake!" said Cobb. "Why is everyone I meet the…" He paused. "…Why is everyone I meet pushing thirty and is still completely _fine_ with it?"

"What?" asked Arthur, who was chuckling at the bizarre, half-formed ideas that always popped out of his associate's mouth. "Are you a ninety-year-old stuck in a twenty-nine-year-old's body?"

"Well, actually," said Cobb, grateful to have the upper hand for once, "I'm pushing _thirty-five._"

The smile faded from Arthur's face.

"You're a mess, you know that?" asked Arthur rhetorically. "A complete and total Mad Mack."

"Heh," said Cobb, "For twenty-nine-year-olds, they're caught in the middle, and for thirty-five-year-olds, they're caught between youth and a mid-life crisis."

"That's the smartest thing I've heard you say in quite some time," said Arthur, "Which is very sad."

"Oh, be quiet, and let us bask in our failure," said Cobb.

Arthur rolled his eyes, and said with a smile, "Whatever you say, dear."

Cobb leaned back, said, "Ay yi yi," and closed his eyes.

Arthur chuckled, and pulled out a magazine that advertised "Yummy newborn scrumps" and "Fish eye delicacies". Sometimes, he thought Cobb was hilarious, and other times, he couldn't stand him. That was one of the perks, or drawbacks, of working with a man who was never serious.

Paris, France

After accepting Saiko's offer, Cobb prowled the streets of Paris to find the genius architect that inspired him to create hidden inner worlds. However, when he was just about to turn into the building, someone with a whimsical Scottish accent said,

"Well, well, well."

Cobb instantly spun around, and looked terrified.

"Dominic Cobb, I presume," said the man. Cobb appraised him. The guy was wearing a tailored blue suit with gray stripes and an old-fashioned Stetson hat, which seemed to indicate that whatever this man's mission was, it was a formal invitation. He knew he had to take him seriously, and then he looked at his face. Just another face.

"You wanted to see me, sir?" Cobb asked.

The man laughed. "You don't need to call me that. What was it you wanted?"

"Nothing," he said.

"No, no, I saw on the look on your face that you wanted something; no, _needed_ something. You needed something like I need water. What was it?" he asked.

Cobb gulped. Who _was_ this guy? Was he an FBI agent, or worse, a lawyer that had come to explain to him the due process of extradition to take him back to jail in the States? Well, whoever he was, he was wasting his time, and he needed to go somewhere. He narrowed his features in a grimace, and said,

"It's none of your business. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go somewhere."

"Sure, be my guest," said the man without a word of reason. "I have to go somewhere, too." And with that, he left.

Cobb had no idea what was up with him, but he was sure that he'd never see him again.

The Architect

Cobb came into his mentor's office, but instead of seeing the kindly but stubborn older gentleman, he found a man about his age with a turtleneck sweater, dress pants, and formal black dance shoes. _It was the same guy he saw on the street!_ He ran up to him, gripped him by the throat, and asked him,

"_What have you done with him?_"

With lightning quick speed, the man snatched his hand away, firmly clenched both hands around his waist, and threw him to the back of the classroom.

"_Will you calm the fuck down!_" the man demanded. "Now, I'm acting as a stand-in for the Professor of Architecture in this university. He's on leave for two weeks holiday."

Cobb was bewildered, and yet astonished. Grown men had wept at his very words, his very presence, and were extremely intimidated by him unless they were in the same league (or better) than him, but that was very rare. However, this guy, with the strength of a 300-pound gorilla, threw him aside the room without breaking a sweat, and seemed to be completely unaffected by anything he said. Without a touch of modesty, he inspected his person to see if any damage had been done. Although he was sore all over, there weren't any broken bones or torn ligaments. Slowly but surely, the man's words began to sink in, and he felt a sudden dread creep into his stomach. His mentor had trusted him to stand in for him, so he would not only have to treat him with the utmost of respect, he also had to inform him of the plan to get back home to his children. He brushed his clothes off and smiled sheepishly.

"My- my utmost apologies," here the man stared at him with one eyebrow raised, "Mister."

The man shrugged, and said, "You can call me Argus."

"I _can_ or I _will?_" he asked paradoxically.

"Either or, take your pick," said Argus.

"Well, I- uh, I had no idea he was taking a break," Cobb said, feeling like a schoolboy who stuck his trousers in the john, "I was going to ask him something."

Argus's ears perked up, and said, "I'm listening."

Cobb's eyes bugged out, and he gave Argus an "Are you serious?" look. "Well, uh, you see, the thing that was on my mind earlier was… getting back to my children."

Argus shrugged with a smile, and said, "So go back to your children."

"Yeah, but listen. I have a plan to get back," he said.

"Oh?" asked Argus. "What is it?"

"Well, it involves destroying a monopoly so this rich guy can jump-start his own, and if I do him a favor, he'll grant me access back to America," he said.

"But that's illegal," said Argus.

"And that's important because…?" asked Cobb rhetorically.

"Why can't you go back to America legally?" asked Argus. "Did you get in trouble with the law?"

"Yes," said Cobb, "They think I murdered my wife."

"So you escaped to _another country_ instead of going through a normal trial like everyone else does, and providing enough evidence that you _didn't do it?_" asked Argus.

Cobb blanched, and said, "Well…" He tried searching for an excuse, and found the one he used most often. "She interviewed three psychiatrists, and they were sure that I did it."

Argus nodded slowly, and said, "There are easier ways to come back to a country illegally, but have you ever heard of Interpol?"

Cobb sighed loudly and distastefully, and said, "Yes, I have, but it'll be hell to find me, and they'll have to deal with the French." He shook his head, and said, "There's no-"

Argus interrupted, "But how did she die, exactly?"

Cobb turned white as a ghost. "She… she leapt off a window ledge."

"So… how did she convince others that you did it?" asked Argus.

Cobb was about to scream mid-sentence, but realized that he made perfect sense. "She… trashed her room, informed the police that I did it, and informed her therapists that I did it to back me up."

"However, you're forgetting something. One: You didn't go through a trial, and you must have a good lawyer to back you up, judging by your wealth and endless array of resources." Cobb gulped. Could this man _know?_ "Two: There's no proof that you _did_ do it, only written documents."

"What written documents?" asked Cobb.

"The transcripts submitted by the therapists," explained Argus. Cobb nodded. "However, on the flip side, there's no proof that you _didn't_ do it, but they found a dead body in the street. I'm a retired policeman, so if I saw that, I'd write it off as a suicide and be done with it."

Suddenly, something clicked in Cobb's mind. This guy was very smart and very well read, possibly well influenced. He understood more than Cobb could possibly understand. So, maybe he could help him on one thing.

"Well, uh," said Cobb, "There's actually this one problem."

The bell rang, and Argus said, "I have a class to teach. I'll see you in your apartment… mmm, sometime tonight? However, when the day's done, we can go somewhere."

"How long?" asked Cobb.

"Oh, 'bout ninety minutes. This is my last class," said Argus. "Anyway, nice knowing you. Take care."

Cobb flushed. No one had said "Take care" to him since his mother died, and his wife had always said, "Be safe."

Ninety minutes of reading Dostoyevsky's Crime and Punishment in French hardback later, the bell rang again, and Argus came in and escorted him to the main hallway, where he met one of Miles's graduate students, Ariadne something-or-other. It sounded French, at least. No one attempted conversation after introductions, initiating an awkward silence. However, Argus clapped his hands together, and said,

"Shall we all retire to Cobb's place?"

Ariadne looked back and forth to Cobb and Argus. She had her own place, yes, but it might be nice to spend a night at a rich bachelor's pad.

"Okay," she said. "Let's go."

So they went, and when they got there, they found an armed guard. Ariadne quirked, but when Cobb submitted the password, they were let in. Ariadne whistled.

"Nice place," she said.

"Well, I don't live here," he said, "I'm coming back home."

"But anyway," said Argus, "What was it you wanted to talk to me about?"

Cobb turned green, and said, "Ariadne, could you go into another room while Argus and I talk?"

"Yes, of course," said Ariadne, who went into the other room, and began drawing mazes.

"Argus," said Cobb, "What I am about to tell you is very serious and _should not under any circumstances_ be shared with _anyone._"

Argus made no promises, but simply said, "I'm listening."

"All right. Now, first off, do you recognize what inception is?" asked Cobb.

"Sure," said Argus brightly, "It means the beginning, the start of an idea or plan."

"You've got it," said Cobb, pointing his thumb and forefinger out, "Now, let's take that idea a step further, and go into…" He thought he heard a noise, but it was just Ariadne sneezing. "Just imagine going into someone's mind, and giving someone an idea. Like, when I tell you not to think about elephants, what do you think about?"

"Pickles," said Argus.

Cobb paused, and said, "Okay, I was going to give a demonstration on how someone plants an idea in someone's mind, but you seem to have thwarted my attempts."

Argus shrugged, and said, "I understand exactly what you're talking about. You want to give _me_ a thought to put in _my_ head…" here Argus paused and looked at him, realization beginning to dawn. "…for your advantage."

Cobb blinked, and said, "Well, I wouldn't put it quite like that, but-"

Argus leaned in closer to Cobb, and said, "Is that what you did? Is that what you did to your wife? Well, clue me in on how it works."

"Well," said Cobb, "I kind of wanted to live in a dream, where it actually felt like reality."

"Like virtual reality?" asked Argus.

"Exactly," said Cobb, "Only you design it as you come into it… and my wife and I built worlds together, built our own world for us to live in."

Argus snapped his fingers. "And it was due to that that you managed to convince your wife to go through with the plan, somehow. You planted a seed into her mind for you two to live together in a dream-world paradise." Argus shook his head. "That's very parasitic enough on her part, but you purposely made _yourself_, as well as your _wife_, as if she were a _toy…_ parasitic receptors to an unreal reality." Argus shook his head again, frowned, and set his mind in deep concentration. "And now you want to go back, by… forging documents and immigration papers, for the selfish desire to come back to your children? I bet you didn't even legally immigrate to France. I ask you-" here he stood up. "-I ask you just what purpose does any of this 'inception' business solve. It proves nothing, it demonstrates nothing, and it _is_ nothing. Why don't you just _prove_ that you didn't murder her?"

"Because I did murder her," said Cobb with his head down. "I tried to wake both of us up by putting her on a train track and killing her in the dream-world we were living in, but we were sent into limbo instead."

"Why on earth could you possibly think that would wake you up?" asked Argus.

"Well… if you have to wake up prematurely, then the only solution (in the dream-world, that is) is to be killed," said Cobb.

An idea was dawning in Argus's mind. "But I see where you went wrong," said Argus. "What happens if you don't want to wake up? What happens when you realize that you're _not_ dreaming, that you actually think that kind of life is real?"

Cobb looked at him as if he told him the secret to a ridiculously complex enigma, but you could only solve it by admitting that two plus two equals four, and as if he had only figured it out until just now. He tilted his head back, and forced it forward with a start, looking at Argus like one would a wise Mage.

"You asked," said Argus with a smile. "Now, what else is preventing you from going home besides legal issues?"

"Well, the legal issues are preventing me from going home, but the thing that makes it more complicated is that I'm an extractor, a guy who extracts ideas from people's minds and works on them to build… the… dreams… for… my own purposes." He bent his head down and covered his eyes. "God, I'm such a selfish fool." He started to cry. "How can I find a job when the only thing I can do is steal other people's thoughts for my own selfish needs?"

"Simple," said Argus crisply, "You can work for the I.A.M."

"What's that?" asked Cobb.

"The International Magicians' Association," he said, smiling. "They have plenty of jobs for reformed mad scientists."

"Oh," said Cobb.

Argus continued, "They'll find you a job in the espionage force, and you can work with them on a psychological factor. You could simply enter the minds of enemy agents, muck around in their heads, and force them to bring them to justice."

"You know, I think I heard something about you guys on the news," said Cobb. "Didn't you stop that terror plant in Southern France in 2004?"

"Yes, and we do stuff like that all the time, every day," said Argus.

"Hang on, this is _gold!_" said Cobb. "This is _big business!_ A corporation like the I.A.M. has been searching for something like inception since its foundation!"

"There's one small problem to your newly-discovered fame and fortune," said Argus.

"Oh?" asked Cobb. "What is it?"

"We've already achieved it."

Cobb's heart didn't sink, but instead said, "Not a problem. Is it considered a dead science, though?"

"Not at all."

"Okay, I can still work with them on it, maybe give them some new ideas."

Argus laughed, and said, "Trust me, they'll think _you're_ a novice. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go."

"Go?" asked Cobb. "Go where?"

"I've done my time, right?" asked Argus. "I've helped you out, I've shown you where you needed to go. So, I'll leave."

"Wait!" said Cobb. "Could you give me information on how to get back to Los Angeles through the I.A.M.?"

Argus stared for a bit, and said, "You'll have to deal with their legal parameters first, and tell the whole story, from top to bottom."

"But then I'll go to jail!" pleaded Cobb, who was almost whining.

"Well, look on the bright side," said Argus, "At least you'll see your children again."

Cobb's heart sank, and when Argus left, he decided that Argus's option was the only way to go. He called Saiko and told him the deal was off, and kindly requested Ariadne to leave. He informed Arthur that he'd no longer be doing his business, and Arthur laughed.

"Well, great!" said Arthur. "No offense, but I was getting tired of you waiting on my heels all the time."

"Wonderful," said Cobb bitterly. He knew he would never see him again, since inception was a top-secret business. However, what was done was done. He sighed, hung up, and informed the operator to contact Los Angeles's I.A.M. department.

"It was '_new_'_?_"

Luckily, L.A.'s I.A.M. head of operations laughed the whole deal off when Cobb related his story, and when his plane landed, he escorted him to his office, bade him a seat, drank his coffee, and couldn't stop giggling. Cobb hated it whenever his superior giggled like a little schoolgirl. Truth be told, he had never experienced it until that day, but it wouldn't be his last.

Was this _real?_ There were so many photos of chemical departments brewing bizarre things, pictures of gadgets and gizmos circa 1859 to two thousand-who knows in the future, and lots and lots of smiling pictures with him and his crew from 1820 to the present day. Just how old was he, and why did he only look like he was in his early fifties? Cobb was about to speak, but the man opened his mouth first.

"Heh, I laughed for hours when you told me that story," he said, "But have you ever heard of a nifty little device called a 'push button'?"

"What's that?" asked Cobb.

"Wow, you really are new at this." Cobb looked angry, but the officer was blithely unaware of this. "A 'push button' is an automatic feature on a device that will let you out of reality anytime you wish, whenever it's convenient, and if you must, use it to save someone's life. Your bootleg materials were extremely dangerous, mentally lethal, and in your wife's case, fatal. However, I'll pardon you for personal reasons."

Cobb decided not to pry, but instead said, "So, I'm not the first at this? The technology is so… _advanced,_ that you can save people's lives even when they _don't_ want to, and my technology was so primitive and lacked basic features, you call it a 'bootleg'?"

"No, yes, and of course," said the officer. "I call it 'home-grown technological terrorism', and it's a bootleg."

Cobb groaned, and put his hands on the sides of his head. He had taken his self-employed profession so seriously, but he realized that he didn't even master the basics because he didn't know how. He had never taken a class on this (because he thought there weren't any!), but he had come up with the extremely widespread idea on his own, an idea that had occurred to tens of thousands of people previously. If someone made a movie about this, any psychotechnologist (as they called them in the I.A.M.) would laugh his self silly, much like American police officers would laugh at Mexicans making crude, bootleg roadside bombs and weaponry and killing themselves in the process. He realized that he was not only _not_ special and unique, but he had become the laughingstock of the magical-scientific community.

"Penny for your thoughts?" asked the man.

"Yes, actually," said Cobb. "How did I become such a smart-ass?"

"Well, it's because you thought you were better than everyone else, and then you actually began to believe it," said the officer.

"So I was living a lie this whole time," said Cobb.

"A half-life," said the officer, "Since you thought your life was the truth."

"My life? I was- I thought it was all about me," said Cobb, and then thought. _But I am who I think, and when I think, I do, and what I do constitutes my character in the eyes of others, and most importantly, myself._

"Not anymore it's not," said the officer firmly but kindly, "If you choose to work here, you'll have to sacrifice your petty intentions for the greater good."

With a shrug, Cobb said ruefully, "Guess you're right. When do I start?"

"One hour, in the floor below us. Be early," he said, but as soon as he said that, he was out the door as quick as a bullet.

_Well, at least he can run_, thought the officer with a smirk. _However, in one year alone, only three out of fifty so-called 'extractions' were successful, so maybe running is a good option for him._

He pulled out a piece of bubblegum, unwrapped it from his wrapper, chewed on it, picked up the Los Angeles Times, leaned back in his chair, blew it up, and popped it. He deposited the candy wrapper in the trash.


End file.
